


Truth be Told

by Beldam



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, reverse au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-10
Updated: 2017-06-10
Packaged: 2018-11-12 06:49:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11156514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beldam/pseuds/Beldam
Summary: McCree has a knack for stories, but he's not the only one.





	Truth be Told

**Author's Note:**

> Uses versions of characters from the reverse au, wherein Hanzo lost the fight with Genji and was saved and cyberized by Overwatch, and McCree never joined with Overwatch and currently heads up Deadlock. This version of McCree only has one eye, and wears an eyepatch.

Hanzo does not need to ask McCree about how he lost his eye to know that he will lie about it.

In the months since he joined up with Deadlock, he’s heard maybe three dozen variations of the tale, one half passed secretively between members during jobs and over meals, the other recounted by McCree himself, either thrown out off-handedly at opportune moments or unpacked in front of firelight, beneath the stars, to a circle of rapt listeners (who have been told the story a hundred times a piece, yet have never heard the same version twice).

Needless to say, Hanzo has his questions about the matter. How could he not, when it comes up in conversation as often as it does? He keeps them to himself, however. It is not his place to pry—especially since McCree has been kind enough to waylay any and all inquiries about the ninja’s own abominable body. That does not keep Hanzo’s curiosity from mounting with every passing day, if only because he has learned everything there is to know about each and every one of Deadlock’s members—except for Jesse McCree.

There are, all across the South West, stories about the bandit McCree, the sharpshooter McCree, the mystery McCree. But the man McCree, the human with a heritage, a history, a lineage made of flesh and blood—no one speaks of him, or seems to remember him at all. It is as if the truth of him has been swallowed up by the desert.

Buried six feet deep beneath the whirling saffron sands.

Still, Hanzo wonders. Where was he born? (McCree says New Mexico). Does he have any family? (McCree claims that they’re all dead). Is Jesse his real name? ( _Of course_ , McCree says with a laugh. _Who in the hell goes and lies about their first name_?)

(And in turn Hanzo wonders, _Wouldn’t you?_ )

The stories stack higher and higher, each one as far away from the truth as the last, and slowly Hanzo begins to lose his tolerance for the taller and taller tales. But he keeps that fact well and truly to himself--at least, until he doesn’t.

They are setting up camp one night when someone (predictably) asks the question: “So what happened to yer eye, Boss?”

McCree gives a low, huffing laugh, dropping his bedroll on the earth so he can tip his hat. “That ol’ yarn?” he says, grinning. “Ain’t you sick of hearin’ it by now?”

It has been a long day and his mood is poor; it is not much of an excuse, but it is what motivates Hanzo to finally grumble: “I certainly am.” The entire group turns to him, none looking more surprised than McCree himself. Pigheadedly, Hanzo continues, “I cannot fathom how you derive any pleasure from listening to the same falsehoods night after night. Is there nothing else you are able to talk about, save for that?”

Silence falls over the camp; it’s too late to correct it, but Hanzo knows he has spoken _way_ out of turn, and for no reason besides his own irritability. He continues busying himself on the edge of the perimeter so he doesn’t have to look up to see the others staring at him, or acknowledge the stillness he has caused to fall over the gang like a pall. But then, not far off, one of McCree’s men pipes up, “Well, shoot. If you wanna story, why don’t you tell one yerself? Nearly six months with Deadlock, and you ain’t hardly said half a word to any one of us. We’ve all let it lie, but since you’re hankerin’ for some easy listenin’, now’s your shot, buckaroo.” Hanzo’s stomach tightens at the collective murmur of agreement which rises from all around him. “Why don’t ya clue as all in on where yer from? ‘Bout why you carry around that bag o’ sticks instead of pickin’ up a gun? Or hell, why don’t you answer the question we’ve all been wonderin’? How’d you wind up gettin’ that fancy body of--”

“Hey, now,” McCree cuts in, a hint of warning in his tone. He looks back and forth across the faces of his men, making it clear that he’s addressing every one of them. “That ain’t none a’ your or anybody’s business, one way or another. Don’t go stickin’ your nose where it don’t belong, or you’re liable to lose it. ‘Sides, he’s got a point.” He throws off a cocksure smile and rubs his throat. “I could use a break. I’m gettin' hoarse as hell, talkin’ your damn fool ears off every day.”

There is a thrum of laughter throughout the camp, and the atmosphere is on the edge of returning to what it was before Hanzo’s outburst. But refusing to let the matter rest, one man insists bitterly, “But Boss, we can’t just let him--”

Before McCree can rush to his aide once again, Hanzo drops everything in his arms abruptly onto the dirt. All eyes are on him when he turns and starts walking loudly towards the fire that burns at the heart of camp.

“Fine,” he says. He turns to the underling who spoke, and even though Hanzo’s eyes are concealed by his visor, the man has the audacity to flinch. “If all of you are so eager to hear my story, I’d be happy to tell it.”

“Like I said,” McCree says quickly, a deep frown cutting lines in his forehead, “it ain’t no one’s business but yours.”

“I see.” Hanzo throws his head back and crosses his arms haughtily over his chest. “So you have no interest in hearing about my failed attempt to capture the Dragon Prince of the Sea.”

The complete, barefaced confusion that muddles McCree’s expression is almost enough to make Hanzo laugh. And then an instant later, realization sparks and all that confusion is gone, replaced instead with--

\--that _smile_. Whitehot, bright as a firecracker, leaving Hanzo blinking and dazed, like a flashbang’s gone off in front of his face. The cowboy doffs his hat and bows, all doe-eyed looking up beneath the brim. “Well, shoot. If it wouldn’t be too much of an imposition...”

“Of course not,” Hanzo huffs, collapsing onto the ground cross legged. “If you would like to hear the story, then gather near and listen closely,” he looks around, meeting as many eyes as he can, capturing the attention of every person there, “because this is the one and only time I will tell it.”

And tell it he does--a tale of a fisherman’s son who, out of greed, sought to capture the Prince of the Sea to attain his many riches. He tells them about the storm that came when he pushed his boat into the water, the crashing waves, the lightning that cracked the sky like eggshells. Then, the appearance of the Prince, the teeth as long and curved as sabers dragging along the sides of the ship, crushing it and pulling it down into the abyss. He recounts in startling detail the flash of gold and green scales as he and his boat were smashed against the rocks at the bottom of the ocean and nearly eaten alive by the creatures there, only to be returned to shore by the grace of the Prince himself, with a warning never again to set foot upon the shore. And lastly, he tells of his only prize, a single hair pulled from the Prince’s mane which he used to string his bow, imbuing his arrows with the power of the storm.

All of Deadlock hangs off his every word, interjecting only to ask questions or to gasp or to holler in amazement or horror. And he responds, drinking it in, using their enthusiasm to grow his story more and more, until it has become far larger than life, and far larger than him.

When it is over, he is shaking, on the edge of breathlessness, as if he himself has just breached the Prince’s raging waters and been dragged half alive onto the beach. No one talks or moves, only watching him, their focus entirely his to command. His spine buzzes under their scrutiny, not from nervousness or anxiety--but from exhilaration, the strange power imbued in him by their attention.

“So,” he says finally, almost gasps it out, “now you know my story.” He rises from the sand and gives a prim bow of the head. “I hope that you are satisfied.” And with that he turns on his heel, bodies quickly moving aside so he can pass, and walks away from the others to take first watch.

A few hours later, he hears spurs jangling beneath him, and he looks down from the edge of the massive stone on which he has made his perch to see McCree making his way over. Funny, how he moves like a phantom, nearly invisibly even under the countless stars of the desert, steps soundless if not for the spinning of those spurs.

“‘Tis the witchin’ hour, darlin’,” the cowboy hums as he comes to a stop beneath Hanzo, eye lost beneath the shadow of his hat, save for a single point of blue light from the reflection of Hanzo’s visor. “Time to get some shut eye. I’ll be lookout ‘til dawn.”

Hanzo doesn’t move. “I can stay until sunrise.”

“I wouldn’t ask that of you, hon.”

“It is no trouble. This body needs less rest than yours anyway.”

“Needin’ less ain’t the same as needin’ none.” They stare at each other, neither budging, neither backing down. Eventually, McCree sighs. He starts clambering up the side of the stone, not as graceful as Hanzo but far from inept. He sits down beside Hanzo once he's at the top, looking all helter-skelter with his legs out and back bent, so different from Hanzo’s firm and polite seiza. The cowboy nods in the direction he came from. “C’mon,” he says, like he’s trying to coax the trembling steps of a newborn foal. “Hop on down and hit the hay. Ain’t no harm in takin’ it easy every now and then.”

Hanzo already knows that there’s no point in arguing. He collects his bow and slings it across his back, saying, “As you like it, then,” as he leaves his perch and starts to make the walk back to camp.

“By the way.” Hanzo glances over his shoulder. McCree is looking straight at him, firebright even in all that shadow, giving Hanzo that flashbang-firecracker smile again. “That was one helluva story you gave us tonight. Damn shame you never told it before.”

Pride, of all things, swells in Hanzo’s chest. He shrugs one shoulder, feigning nonchalance.

“A story is always best after you have waited for it a while,” Hanzo hums, and continues on back to the rest of Deadlock. 

By the time the next evening rolls around, the story of the Dragon Prince is like a memory from the farflung past--but before he knows it Hanzo finds himself corralled into the center of camp, the eager eyes of Deadlock glittering with anticipation. He doesn’t need more prompting than that. In an instant, he’s telling another story, this one about a man who became indebted to a vicious mob boss, and, unable to pay his dues, settled the account by giving up pieces of his body, cutting them off and selling them away bit by bit. And they listen, heavens, do they listen, not making a single peep even after Hanzo is done.

The same thing happens the night after, and the night after that, and after that, until the stories are rolling off Hanzo's tongue like licks of flame from a dragon's maw. Soon, McCree jumps back into the mix, and the pair alternate evenings, bounce off one another, tie their stories together to create a single narrative for their vastly adjacent lives--and then pull them apart, setting them at places and times so disparate it’s as though they could not both have occurred in the same century.

McCree says he lost his eye in a knife fight with his old gang's boss. Hanzo says he lost his body in a shootout in Shibuya. McCree concocts a fairytale about making a trade with a demon for a waterskin. Hanzo makes believe about losing a bet with a forest spirit. McCree lies of this--Hanzo, of that. On and on, they talk about deals, misadventures, dark specters encountered at crossroads, without any end in sight. Hanzo begins to understand why McCree does it. This artful evasion of the truth, so proudly inconsistent and absurd that it can’t even be classed as true deceit, cuts through the haze of the past like shining shears, giving form and meaning to the senseless injuries of yesterday. But inside, the truth remains, an itching presence lingering in the yarns they spin.

They’re practicing one day, taking turns shooting stacked stones off the tops of rock formations, when Hanzo suddenly admits, “None of those stories are true.”

McCree chuckles at that, the staccato of his laughter checked by the noise of him spinning the blanks out of his six shooter. “Ya don’t say.”

“Tall tales are not my strong suite.”

“Is that right? You’d never know it, hearing you tell ‘em like you do.”

Hanzo lifts his shoulders, draws back the string of his bow. His body feels airy and bright, the darkness it carries buoyed by the laundry list of fabrications. “Perhaps it is in my blood. My father was always fond of telling stories.”

“Was he?”

“Mm. Although, I never saw much point in them. Fairytales. Mindless distraction. I suspect he told them more for my brother’s benefit than my own.”

“You have a brother?”

Hanzo blinks as he looses his arrow. He misses his mark—badly. It glances off stone and skewers a nearby cactus, caught haphazardly between a cluster of pale pink flowers. Politely, McCree makes no comment on the quality of the shot. “I’ve never mentioned him?”

“Reckon you haven’t.”

“Oh.” Hanzo gives his arms a shake, as if to loosen them. “That’s a pity. I think you and he would have gotten along.”

“What makes you say that?”

“He was a stubborn and silly man.” He knocks another arrow, aims, lets it go. This one flies true. Hanzo lowers his bow, conscious of the sudden weight in it. He looks at McCree, and he gives a small, self-conscious smile beneath his veil. “As you are.”

“Aw, darlin’, you sure know how to make a man’s heart flutter,” McCree teases, doffing the brim of his hat. “That kinda flattery’s liable to send me to an early grave.”

Hanzo rolls his eyes for no one’s benefit but his own. “As I said,” he chuckles. “Silly.”

“What’s he up to nowadays? This mystery brother of yours.”

Hanzo wonders the same thing. He keeps track of the Shimada’s movements, their activities and trades, but Genji’s place in the business has become largely obscured over the years. There is a chance he has stepped down from the head of the family—or worse, been usurped. Hanzo tries not to think about it. One way or another, he will know the truth soon enough.

“I’m not sure. We have not spoken in many years.”

“Huh. You have a fight?”

He tries to slip his bow back over his shoulder. He can’t. It’s like an anchor in his hands. He stands stiff, staring at the target he finds himself unable to shoot. “Yes.”

“Bad one?”

“Very.”

“You win?”

“No,” Hanzo rasps. “I did not.”

“You left home because of it?”

“It was not so simple. There was just no going back after what happened between us.”

McCree furrows his brow, as curious as he is concerned. “Why’s that?”

It feels surreal to be talking about it, the fight that was the definitive end of his life as Shimada Hanzo, when he has not referenced it even once before in all the years since it happened. He supposes all those stories have loosened his tongue. He feels the truth scratching behind his teeth like fine sand, tasting of grit and bones. He turns to face McCree. “I have this body because of him.”

McCree stares at him, as if waiting for the tale to unfold before him, to become something grand and vibrant and, most of all, untrue. It does none of these things. The fact of Hanzo’s history sits stale between them, ugly and inert. In a harsh whisper: “You don’t have to tell me about--”

“I have not spoken about this to anyone before,” Hanzo says crisply. “I am choosing to tell you. If you would rather not hear it, then you are free to tell me so. But, know you would be doing it for your own benefit--not for mine.”

McCree's jaw tightens and he inhales deeply. Bracing himself. “What happened?” he finally asks.

Hanzo prepares his answer. He unpacks it in his mind, tries to discern the beginning, middle, and end. The requisite parts. The pieces that will fit together to form the semblance of his past. “After my father passed away there was great unrest in our family,” he says with a flat, unprovocative tone, stating facts without any intent to inspire empathy. “In order to ensure our future, we needed stability, but my brother...I told you, he was silly. Stubborn. Often selfish.” He shakes his head, letting out a low, mirthless sound. “My betters and I repeatedly counseled him to change his ways for the sake of the clan, but each time he refused. When we pushed the issue too far, he retaliated.” He gestures vaguely at himself. “This was the result.”

McCree is an even-keeled man, not one to let his emotions get the better of him--at least, Hanzo has always thought of him that way. Now, there is something unpleasantly dark radiating out behind his words, the oppressive swelter of anger, rumbling like a summer storm. “He left you for dead.”

“We were victims of our circumstances,” Hanzo responds bleakly. “It was not his fault.”

“The way you talk, you’d think you still cared about that sonuvabitch.”

“I do care about him. He is my family.”

“He’s your blood,” McCree snaps, his voice hissing like a fuse burning down on dynamite. His eye flashes red with the desert sun. “He _ain’t_ your family.”

Hanzo sighs. Lamely, he mutters, “...it is more complicated than that.”

It is clear that McCree doesn’t accept that answer. Still, he’s diplomatic enough to drop the matter with a sniff, pulling down the brim of his hat. “Whatever you say, pardner.”

They stand in silence, staring at the stones scattered and shattered ahead. Hanzo puts his bow down on the ground (he can’t hold it anymore, it feels foreign and unwieldy in his hands) and goes over to the rocks, stacking them up again so they can keep on shooting them down. A coyote howls, and its voice echoes in the gorge. Hanzo looks at McCree over his shoulder.

Beneath his breath, he asks, “How did you lose your eye, McCree?”

McCree looks at him.

McCree says nothing.

It is the closest to the truth Hanzo’s ever been.


End file.
